First Flight

Rain has always meant sanctuary: the hush behind windows, the secret music against glass. But tonight, while Halcyon Falls soaks in another slick wash of drizzle, Lila stares at her chipped bedroom mirror and thinks of masks, not shelter.

The yellow city lights are watery and far away, painting her small space in bruised gold. A heap of discarded T-shirts and scarves sprawls across her bed—black, navy, grey. She’s fished up an old hoodie, cut the sleeves, layered it beneath her mother’s battered windbreaker. Her mom’s old running scarf hides her hair when she bunches it tight; sunglasses, dollar-store dark, shroud her eyes in unease and intention.

She studies her reflection: thin, wiry, pale. She could vanish in any crowd. But under the too-large hoodie, there’s a glimmer at her wrists when she flexes her fingers—a shimmer of half-swallowed light. No cape, no symbol. Just shadows coiled beneath her skin and the borrowed shape of someone braver than she feels.

The city is still loud with sirens. Lila’s heart thuds a nervous algorithm as she snags her backpack—just a can of pepper spray, a half-used first-aid kit, and the notebook from her family box, tucked down deep for luck. She pulls the scarf up to her mouth, hands shaking.

She tells herself: It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just enough. Enough to stop someone from bleeding. Enough so you don’t freeze again.

---

The night air is sharp and wet as she darts from her building’s rear door, stalking the alley’s spine. The city pulses—cars hissing through water, the sour heat of garbage and ozone. Her breathing settles as her sneakers slap rhythm on cracked pavement. She slides between pools of neon and shadow, nerves singing—a note between dread and hope.

Her first stop is Old Market Row, where closed-up shops huddle like battered teeth. She lingers by the convenience store with yellowed posters in its window, drawn by instinct—she always cuts through here on her way home, but tonight she circles, drifting just outside the edge of light.

Inside, a familiar shape: the elderly man behind the register, whose smile cracked for her every Friday when she was thirteen, buying candy with jars of loose pennies. He moves slowly, stacking canned soup, back bent like a question mark.

Lila’s pulse thrums. Logic says nothing will happen—but she waits, hands balled in her pockets, flexing the idea of courage between breaths.

It erupts quickly. The bell over the door stutters as two figures push in, soaked from the rain. Both wear low hats and matching navy jackets. The taller man sweeps a hand from his pocket—a glint of metal. The other shoves the old man aside, voice hoarse.

"Just the cash, gramps. Fast."

Lila’s brain blurs at the edges: fear, memory, the dark alley behind the diner. She sees the old man’s eyes, wide and flickering, and feels her own terror burning bright, warring with something wilder.

She steps from the awning, moving as she’s seen heroes do in movies—slow and sure, even though every cell screams retreat.

The bell dings again as she enters. She lowers her chin, scarf high, sunglasses down. Her voice stumbles out rough and strange:

"Leave him alone."

Both men whirl, surprised. The taller robber’s gun points straight at her, trembling only a little. The old man slumps behind the counter, breath hissing.

For a terrible second, silence reigns—the kind before explosions. Lila’s fingers twitch, pulling every shadow in the store, dark thickening behind chip racks, pooling beneath her feet. She can feel the echo, the hunger in her chest. Power, as wild as panic.

The shorter man laughs. "Who’s this, the Night Shift Girl?"

He nods at his partner. "Just do her, then the cash."

The gun lifts toward her. Lila barely thinks. She thrusts out her hand and darkness rushes forward—more alive than she’s ever felt it, boiling from the corners, thick and instant. The fluorescent lights above flicker, then go out with a shocked pop.

For a split blink, it’s pure black—a silence as deep as water. She blinks, forcing her own light to spark; silver threads lace through the gloom, illuminating the shapes: the robbers’ gaping faces, the cashier curled and trembling.

One of the thieves howls. The other swings blindly. The gun cracks, deafening—a flash that screams past her ear. Lila stretches both hands, unleashing a shield of shadow that absorbs the sound and heat, flattening the bullet’s deadly trajectory.

The darkness pulses with her panic. She feels her mind skate dangerously close to something bottomless—the urge to let it all go, to drown these two men and herself in a vomiting swell of cold night. Her hands tremble. Light braids instinctively with violent shadow, breaking the spell with sparkling, sharp-edged rays. For a moment, the robbers freeze, dazzled—ghost-lit, blinded, dropping their weapons.

She breathes. In, out. The power lets go. Shadows retreat, lights shivering back to life one bulb at a time. The gun slides away. One robber groans; the other flees, crashing into a display.

Lila shouts, not her voice but someone’s braver: "Police are coming! Stay down!" She scoops the gun with a swirl of shadow, pinning it flat beneath a shelf. One man crawls toward the door; Lila kicks it closed with a push of blackness, holding him in place with gentle, shivering darkness.

The old man stares at her, jaw slack, unable to stand, but not in danger. She kneels, just long enough to press his hand: "You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s over."

"Who—what are you?" he whispers through tears.

Lila hesitates—panic, hope, the old fear, all colliding. Someone outside, a teenager with a phone, stares through the window. Red lights dance up the street—sirens coming fast. She stands, scanning faces.

"I’m... just a friend," she manages, voice warbling, and dashes toward the back exit, breathing hard.

The air outside is biting cold. She sprints into the mouth of an alley, boots splashing, scarf clutched tight. She doesn’t look back until she’s blocks away, heart exploding with adrenaline and regret, relief and terror.

She checks her hands—no blood, just the sizzle of shadow and sunlight threading together. Did she help? Did she almost lose herself? She’s not sure.

A ping from her phone—texts blowing up. Someone’s posted a blurry video already: a shadow-cloaked figure surrounded by streaks of impossible light in the shattered store. Comments bloom beneath: WRATH OF THE NIGHT? WHO SAVED MR. KIM? IS THIS A NEW HERO?

Her hands shake, but for the first time, not just with fear. With purpose. With awe.

---

Elsewhere—hunched high above the city, rain gusting over the gargoyle ledge of an old theater—another figure watches a dark screen. Footage repeats: shadows, light, a trembling girl made monstrous and beautiful by weather and happenstance. The figure’s lips curl into a grin, amused and hungry.

"Welcome to the show, Shadowlight," The Chimaera purrs, voice nearly lost to the wind. "Let’s see if you shine, or shatter."